Adrenaline
by WeeLittleBeastie
Summary: In which Tommy doesn't die during the season finale and the boys have time to talk about things. Oliver/Tommy bromance and friendship with a healthy dose of whump.


**A/N:** This is AU, since Tommy Merlyn died during "Sacrifice". I think it was a completely unnecessary death, so I twiddled my typing fingers and I fixed it. Much friendship and hurt/comfort type stuff in here, and as always, a good healthy dose of character whumping. This is first-draft-ish, wholly unbeta'd, and a little rough, so be kind. Enjoy!

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Tommy Merlyn remembered the high school biology class discussion about the effects of adrenaline on the human body. In response to a threat, the body went into overdrive, prompting the adrenal gland to produce adrenaline, increasing heart rate and preparing all parts of the body for violent muscle action. He had seen news stories and read articles about people who had done amazing things—lifting cars off of loved ones, fighting off bears or big cats, walking away from accident sites with massive trauma—under, the experts said, the influence of the body's adrenal response to stress.

Well he was definitely stressed, he thought as he scrambled over another toppled filing cabinet.

The CNRI building was in ruins, the second floor barely hanging on for dear life above his head, but his focus had narrowed to the breathless cries for help coming from somewhere inside. Laurel, _his _Laurel, was trapped somewhere under the debris, and impending structural collapse be damned, he was going to save her. The smoke and ash in the air left a bitter tang on his tongue and he coughed to clear his throat before diving under an exposed wire and finally locating his target.

She was pinned beneath a thick slab of concrete, gasping for breath around it and calling for help with her eyes closed. Ash coated her lashes and floated off in lazy moats as she blinked up at him, surprise written across her face. "Tommy? What are you doing here?"

"I had a feeling you might come back to CNRI!" he shouted back as he hooked his fingers beneath the edge of the concrete. He could see the veins in his arms already standing out, feel the strain of extreme weight even before he'd really budged the concrete, and he knew he was going to pay for this later, but a little lactic acid and some torn muscle fibers were a small repentance for being such and _idiot, _he told himself.

"You came here for me?" The tone in her voice made his heart skip, and he vowed that if he could just get her out of here, get himself out of here, he would talk to her, apologize in every way he could think of for being so stupid. Because she _loved him. _

"I love you," he replied, locking gazes with her for an instant before he dropped his stance and lifted the concrete with every ounce of determination he could muster. He could almost feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins as inch-by-inch, the slab shifted upward. He heard Laurel gasp as the pressure lifted from her chest, heard her scrabble across loose rubble to free herself. He heard her hesitate and screamed, "Go! Get out! Go!" She disappeared into the smoke as the whole building groaned. Tommy dropped the slab and turned to run as metal shrieked and bricks toppled inward. The ground swayed and bucked with the force of the building uprooting its own walls, and he felt himself tipping backwards with the horrifying revelation that the concrete slab behind him had at least seven inches of rebar exposed at its center and twisted upward. In that moment, Tommy Merlyn was sure he was going to die.

Out of nowhere, a blur of green hit him with the force of a small truck, propelling him forward. Tommy fell on his face, skin scraping and tearing over jagged rubble. He cried out as something warm and heavy landed on top of him, driving his limbs deeper into the rubble and knocking the wind from his body. Arms encircled his head as the roar of destruction surrounded him and pressed against his ears, all screaming steel and roaring concrete and the occasional _plink _of falling brick. It seemed like it took hours to stop, and when it did, there was nothing but the pressing silence, the hitched breathing on the back of his neck, and the distant sounds of screams and sirens and helicopter blades slicing through air thick with death.

Tommy' protector had gone limp, dead weight on top of him, and something warm and sticky was dripping onto his face. He turned his head as far as he could to the left and caught a glimpse of green leather and wool. "Oliver?" No response. Tommy shifted, starting to claw his way out from under his friend, mindful of his own cuts and scrapes and trying to keep Ollie as still as possible until he could assess the kind of damage he'd sustained.

Oliver was out cold and his hood had fallen back. Tommy set about examining him as carefully as possible. He soon discovered that the blood dripping onto his face was oozing from a laceration on Oliver's face, a jagged maw that had opened from temple to ear just beneath his hairline. It was probably also the reason the vigilante was unconscious. He had a through and through wound to the shoulder Tommy was fairly certain he hadn't obtained in the building collapse (and he shuddered to think where it _had _come from), but by far the most troubling thing next to the head wound was the very same rebar Tommy had feared to fall on, protruding from Oliver's right thigh and glistening with fresh blood.

Tommy heard shifting debris and Laurel calling his name and glanced frantically at Oliver. He knew two things; Oliver would NEVER let Laurel see him like this, and he also wasn't ready to divulge the true identity of the vigilante to her yet. There was also the fact that her father was probably right behind her, and the last person that ever needed to know Oliver was the Hood Guy was Detective Lance. Thinking quickly, Tommy yanked the hood over Oliver's face before vaulting over a file cabinet and a haphazard pile of bricks. Laurel sagged with relief when she saw him. "Tommy thank God," she exclaimed, falling into him. He allowed himself a moment or two to just hold her, reveling in the fact that she was alive and safe and _his, _before he held her at arm's length.

"Listen Laurel, I need you to listen. You need to go to a hospital." She opened her mouth to argue and he pressed a finger to her lips. "No, listen. You were crushed, you might have internal bleeding or at the very least you cracked a rib or two, and I _need _you to go get a clean bill of health so I don't have to worry."

"Well what about you? You were inside the building." He recognized the stubborn set of her lip and sighed. He was going to have to play dirty here.

"I'm fine, I found a pocket under some concrete to hide in and nothing fell on me. But I need to look for survivors, and I can't do that effectively if I'm worried about you. And I'm sure your father would agree," he added as Quentin appeared over a pile of rubble. "Go, get checked out and get a clean bill of health, and then you can come back and help. Please."

Laurel bit her lip, brow furrowed. Tommy loved the way her frustrated face crinkled her nose, and he bit back a smile, trying his hardest to be stern. The slight hitches in her breath were enough to concern him; she definitely at least had some cracked ribs. Finally, she nodded, relenting, and let Quentin take her back outside, the cop silently mouthing a thank you as they disappeared. He wanted to go with her, to be there to comfort her, but he had more pressing issues.

Returning to Oliver, he quickly searched through his pockets until he found a radio. Depressing the call button, he waited a few seconds. "Is anyone there? This is Tommy Merlyn. I'm with Oliver, and he needs help."

"Hell…o? Tommy?" The voice was female, and she sounded a little teary. "As in Tommy Merlyn Malcolm Merlyn's son?"

"Unfortunately yes. Look, I'm with Oliver and he's hurt pretty badly."

"How badly is pretty badly? What happened? Is he okay? Is he awake?"

"Hey!" Tommy shouted, interrupting the string of questions. "Look I get that you're worried but I really need you to get in touch with someone who can help. If someone comes through here and figures out who he is…"

"Right. Right, absolutely. I'll call Dig and find out where he is. He was stitching up his shoulder last I heard from him." There was the sound of typing for an instant, and then, "Okay Tommy. I'm Felicity. I tracked Oliver's signal to the CNRI building. I'm assuming he took the bike; there should be a first aid kit under the seat with everything you need for basic wounds. Keep the radio close so I can contact you if I need to, okay?"

"You got it," Tommy replied, and tucked the radio into his pocket.

He found the bike, and the first aid kit as promised, and hurried back inside. As he carefully removed the hood and started to maneuver the jacket off his friend, Oliver moaned and twitched, then hissed. "Hey, stay still," he murmured, holding his friend carefully by the shoulders. "It's good that you're awake but you need to stay still okay? Your leg is impaled and you've got a pretty wicked cut on your face." He turned on the emergency lantern and set it down where it threw enough light for him to see.

"Tommy?"

"Yeah man. You know you really are stupid, jumping on top of people like that."

"'S not my fault your sorry ass needed saving, Merlyn," Oliver slurred. "How bad is the leg? What color is the blood?"

It seemed like a stupid question, but Tommy looked up from sorting through the first aid kit to check. "It's red?"

"Black-red or red-red?"

"I don't know, dude, the color of Twizzlers. And there's a lot of it, although it looks like it slowed down some."

Oliver nodded. His focus was improving somewhat and his words came clearer. "Possible it nicked an artery. I won't move it if I can help it." He shifted and inhaled sharply. "Definitely some broken ribs," he added, wincing.

Tommy kept up a stream of small talk as he worked, packing layers of gauze around the rebar in his friend's leg to stop the bleeding. He suggested a tourniquet, but Oliver shot the idea down, pointing out that they had no idea how long it would be until help arrived, and he needed two legs to fight crime. Once he'd done all he could there, he moved on to the head wound. Once the blood mask was cleaned up it proved to be relatively minor, although it still looked nasty. He was about to move to the shoulder when Oliver dropped something into his lap.

Picking up the suture kid, Tommy felt his gorge rise and shook his head. "Whole lotta nope. I am NOT sticking a needle in your face Ollie!"

"It needs stitches you wuss. It's like sewing a blanket." Oliver chuckled. "Which I'm willing to bet you've never done." He twisted his head to one side to expose the gash. "Look, it needs stitches. Sooner is better than later, and I'll talk you through how to do it okay? It's easy."

With a good deal of self-deprecating pep talking, Tommy eventually stitched the wound. They were clumsy; they would definitely leave a scar. "It's not like I don't already have a ton of scars, Tom, I'll get over it." Scoffing, he moved on to clean and stitch the shoulder wound, and then, moving him as little as possible, he helped Oliver shrug out of the leather jacket and wrapped it around the hood, setting them both aside. With the blood and the green makeup cleaned off his face, Oliver looked less like a zombie B-movie actor and more like himself. Tommy checked to see that the leg was still intact and then sat back on his heels, resting his shoulders against a fallen beam. Pulling the radio out of his pocket, he pressed the call button and frowned when there was no static. "You have got to be kidding me," he moaned, "dead battery? Now?"

"Relax, Tommy. Felicity knows where we are. She'll send Dig. We just have to sit tight." Oliver smiled, but Tommy could tell he was hurting; his breath was coming in short little gasps as he tried not to aggravate his broken ribs, and not moving to avoid disturbing the leg was putting painful pressure on his uninjured side.

Several minutes of silence lapsed, Oliver with his head pillowed on his arms, blinking slowly, occasionally grimacing, and Tommy sitting in quiet thought. "Did you kill him? My father?"

Oliver paused. "Tommy…"

"It's okay, if you did. I mean, you didn't have a choice." He took a shuddering breath. "Is it weird, that after all of this," he gestured to the wreckage around him, "after all this I still feel… sad? That he's gone?"

"He's your father, Tommy. Whatever he did, he's still your father."

Hot tears blazed a trail down Tommy' face and he brushed them angrily away, shifting so he could lift the bandages around Oliver's thigh. "It's still bleeding," he said shakily, "but it's slowed way down. That's good right?"

"Sure. Or I'm exsanguinating." Oliver laughed, but his face was just a little too pale, his breath a little too labored for Tommy's liking. "Did you apologize to Laurel?" he asked suddenly, and Tommy frowned. "Don't change the subject. But no, since you asked, not yet. Rest assured I will be apologizing for weeks, I was such an idiot."

Merlyn sat back again, watching as his friend closed his eyes and focused on breathing around the ache in his ribs. It was calming, listening to him as he timed his inhales and exhales and calmed the tension in his body. Tommy felt himself relaxing as well, and as the last dregs of adrenaline drained from his bloodstream, he felt suddenly like he could sleep for 100 years. "Ollie?" he said suddenly. "What… The island. Can I ask questions about the island? I know, I know you don't want to talk about it, but I just… I need to understand some things."

"You can ask." Oliver frowned at the disappointment on his friends face and sighed as heavily as one could with several broken ribs. "I will answer what I can, Tommy, but I don't know how much of it I'm ready to talk about."

Tommy nodded, and silence resumed as he pondered his first question. "Where'd the hood come from?"

It startled him. He'd been expecting him to ask about the scars, or the ninja skills, or the various other things he'd asked about before. Oliver was taken aback, but he thought for a moment and then answered. "It belonged to a man named Yao Fei."

"You knew him on the island?"

"Yes. He… taught me. How to survive."

It was a thin answer, but it was more than Tommy had known before, and he could tell how hard it was for Oliver to talk about. He savored the little nugget of insight. "And the bow was his as well?"

"Not this one. This one belonged to… someone else. The one I had the night your father was shot was his, but it's broken."

"My father broke it," Tommy murmured.

"Yes."

"I'm sorry."

Oliver propped himself on his elbows and looked up at Tommy. "Don't apologize for your father. His mistakes aren't yours. You're a good man, Tommy. You're nothing like him."

And that right there was why Oliver was his best friend. He read Tommy's mind, knew exactly what he needed to hear to bolster him. He smiled, grateful. "Thanks." Stretching his back until it popped, he settled back against his beam and wrapped his arms around his knees. "Next question: when did you learn to speak Russian?"

"Pass."

"Oh come on! Somehow you spent five years on an island and you learned to speak Russian AND Chinese. And you clearly spent a lot of time with people who learned English as a second language, because your speech patterns have gone all proper. Or for all I know you got sent back in time and there was something about a polar bear."

"What does a polar bear have to do with anything?"

"Never mind, it's not important. Are you going to answer the question?"

Oliver chuckled and shook his head. "Ask another." Inside, though, the vigilante was pondering his friend's perceptiveness. No one else had seemed to notice the slight change in the way he spoke. Tommy, though, had picked up on it almost instantly.

Tommy was still grinning. "Okay, okay, next question. Was there a girl, on the island?"

He could instantly tell by the way Oliver's face fell that he'd struck a chord. "I'm sorry," he said quickly. "I'm sorry, you don't have to answer that. I didn't mean to…"

"Yes, there was a girl. For a little while." Oliver blinked. "But she died."

By the way he returned his head to his arms and closed his eyes, Tommy could tell the Q&A had just ended. Guilt burned hot in his throat for bringing up something that had hurt his friend. But he needed to keep talking, keep Oliver awake and alert. Leaning forward, he lifted the bandages again. The leg had all but stopped bleeding, but Oliver was looking pale and shaky. There was sweat on his upper lip and his eyes looked glazed, and when Tommy touched his forehead there was heat radiating from his skin.

"Okay, now I'm worried about infection," he said, sifting through the first aid kit. There was a setup for an IV drip, which he set aside to use in a second, and a film canister full of herbs that smelled like volcano ashes. "Will this stuff help?"

Oliver sniffed the canister and smiled. "Dig would remember to put this in there." And he tipped the contents back, chewing the leaves with a slight grimace. "Never get used to the taste," he muttered.

"What was that?"

"A plant, from the island. Useful in the case of poisoning or infection." He swallowed thickly and winced.

Tommy set to work on the IV. It took him three tries to get the needle in properly, but he had a model patient. Taping the needle down, he let a little of the fluid run through the tube before connecting everything and then hung the bag from a jagged tooth of concrete above them. The fluids seemed to help pretty quickly; a little color returned to Oliver's skin and he seemed more alert. Tommy himself was flagging; he hoped the bodyguard would arrive soon.

Tires squealed outside, followed by the slamming of a car door. Diggle met Tommy near what used to be the building entrance, one arm in a sling and the other clutching a large black hard case. Oliver made an offhanded comment about the big boy medical kit and chuckled to himself; Dig elected to ignore it and handed Tommy a bottle of water and a granola bar. "You're shaking too much right now to be helpful. Eat, drink half the water, and then we'll see."

Tommy drank the whole bottle, downing it in one long gulping inhale. He hadn't realized how thirsty he'd been, or hungry, but they'd been trapped in the building for close to six hours, John told him, and he supposed it made sense. And the bodyguard was right; his hands had stopped shaking and he felt more alert, steadier.

Diggle explained how he was going to extract Oliver's leg from the rebar. The vigilante didn't look pleased at the prospect, but he gritted his teeth and nodded.

Slowly, an inch at a time, they lifted his leg off the bar, packing and repacking as they went to slow the fresh bleeding. The big boy medical kit was stocked with powdered coagulant that they sprinkled liberally to help the blood clot. Oliver was stoically silent through the whole process, but veins stood out in his neck and he was gritting his teeth so hard Tommy thought they might break. As they finally lifted him clear of the rebar, he let out a long, heart wrenching keen and then lost his grip on consciousness, head lolling to one side. "Stubborn ass," Diggle was muttering, "couldn't do that twenty minutes ago when we started?"

They got the leg patched the best they could and then Tommy helped change his friend into street clothes. John admitted to running them over a few times with the car to make them look sufficiently beat up, and they ripped the clothes where needed, dipping fingers into the blood pooled on the ground and smearing it across fabric like some kind of morbid finger painting. In the end though, John pronounced it a good enough job to fool a doctor's cursory inspection, and the two men loaded the third into the back of the car.

The drive to the hospital was quiet. Tommy's head lolled against the window as he struggled to stay awake. Laurel would be waiting for him, and he could hug her and kiss her and apologize profusely for being such a gigantic moron for the past few weeks. Oliver would be fine, and somehow they'd find a way to move past what had happened.

As the hospital staff whisked Oliver away behind some double doors, a nurse herded a barely conscious Tommy into a side room. She cleaned up the cut his father had left on his face, stuck on some butterfly closures to hold it together, and sent him back to the waiting room with a blanket. Too tired to argue, Tommy chose the softest couch available, fell onto it, and within seconds was dead to the world.


End file.
